me the disasters of 1814 and 1815; and, left
alone and without resource, she had decided to let furnished lodgings in
order to keep herself and her daughter.

"She always hoped to see her husband again. Her greatest trouble was
about her daughter's education; the Princess Borghese was her Pauline's
godmother; and Pauline must not be unworthy of the fair future promised
by her imperial protectress. When Mme. Gaudin confided to me this heavy
trouble that preyed upon her, she said, with sharp pain in her voice,
'I would give up the property and the scrap of paper that makes Gaudin
a baron of the empire, and all our rights to the endowment of Wistchnau,
if only Pauline could be brought up at Saint-Denis?' Her words struck
me; now I could show my gratitude for the kindnesses expended on me
by the two women; all at once the idea of offering to finish Pauline's
education occurred to me; and the offer was made and accepted in the
most perfect simplicity. In this way I came to have some hours of
recreation. Pauline had natural aptitude; she learned so quickly, that
she soon surpassed me at the piano. As she became accustomed to think
aloud in my presence, she unfolded all the sweet refinements of a heart
that was opening itself out to life, as some flower-cup opens slowly to
the sun. She listened to me, pleased and thoughtful, letting her dark
velvet eyes rest upon me with a half smile in them; she repeated her
lessons in soft and gentle tones, and showed childish glee when I was
satisfied with her. Her mother grew more and more anxious every day to
shield the young girl from every danger (for all the beauty promised in
early life was developing in the crescent moon), and was glad to see her
spend whole days indoors in study. My piano was the only one she could
use, and while I was out she practised on it. When I came home, Pauline
would be in my room, in her shabby dress, but her slightest movement
revealed her slender figure in its attractive grace, in spite of the
coarse materials that she wore. As with the heroine of the fable of
'_Peau-d'Ane_,' a dainty foot peeped out of the clumsy shoes. But all
her wealth of girlish beauty was as lost upon me. I had laid commands
upon myself to see a sister only in Pauline. I dreaded lest I should
betray her mother's faith in me. I admired the lovely girl as if she had
been a picture, or as the portrait of a dead mistress; she was at once
my child and my statue. For me, another Pygmalion,